
Author 



Title 



Imprint. 



Chatterton, The Black 
Death, and Meriwether 
Lewis, Three Plays by 
Charles Reznikoff. 



OCT 24*22 



Chatterton, The Black 
Death, and Meriwether 
Lewis, Three Plays by 
Charles Reznikoff . 



C-O-vsm^ *gj 






Copyright 1922 by Charles Reznikoff. 
All rights reserved. 



For Sale at 

THE SUNWISE TURN 

51 E. 44th Street 

New York 



/ 



/ / 

CHATTERTON r 

Scene One 

(The tombs of Canynge, his wife, and Rozvley 
within a church. From their tombs) 

Canynge. The marble flooring of my vault 
had fallen in, 
And into me, waist-deep in sand, an elm 
Struck its twisted roots. 

Canynge's Wife. On my smooth body 

That knew silk and wool only, 
Ant-hills like sores. 

Rowley. My enemy, the clock, 

Talked me, the poet, down at last. 
Live, while you can, Chatterton, 
Until the mortgagee forecloses 
Upon Bristol and your spacious sky. 

Canynge's Wife. Bristol, 

Beside the blue flowing water. 

Chatterton. No wonder you ghosts cry 
out against 

The clamp of death, 

Lord Mayor Canynge, Lady Mayoress, and 
Priest Rowley. 

Any weather is fair weather to a warm coat. 

I eat in the kitchen, sleep with the footboy. 

They send to peep upon me, copying Mr. Lam- 
bert's documents, 

Hours: eight to eight. Sister and mother take 
in sewing. 

1 



©0.0 62567^ 



"Thank you kindly, Mr. Lambert," and "Thank 

you, Mrs. Lambert" ; 
Colston's charity-boy thanks you. 
Trifles. Have you had a pebble in a shoe? 
A hair on your tongue, a grain of sand in 

your eye? 
Do this and this and be back sharp. 
If I could only leave and be alone, 
Not stolen jotting. 

The heart fills and fills, no end to seeing. 
You are young, j'ou were just seventeen ; 
I have lived one-fourth of my life, if I live 

to be seventy. 

Rowley. The sun, the air, water when 
thirsty, bread and fruit, 
When lean and hungered into exaltation, 
Stretching along a bed when tired, and waking 
To listen to the night over the house, 
So easily are the living joyful. 

Chatterton. A man with a grain of sand 
in his eye 
Can not see the sun. 

Canynge. Prisoners have been known 

To scoop their way, using fingers only, 
Under walls sunk deeply into earth; or with 

an iron nail 
Scratch out the mortar holding stone and bars. 
So I, scullion, became merchant and Lord 

Mayor. Step by step, distances. 

Chatterton. Prisoners are prisoners us- 
ually. 

Rowley. Men, brick by brick, have made 
such work ; 



Were these not troubled too by this and that? 
While you live, 
You may outfly eagles ; 
Because you are not eagle, but a man. 
Live, Chatterton ! the earth is man's and star 
by star in time. 

Chatterton. Sundays I have walked the 

streets and seen 
Men and women, and girls two by two, and 

men alone, 
Dressed in their Sunday clothes, their faces 

ugly; 
And thought, Through these rushes I can 

tread any way I please. 

Canynge's Wife. Holiday nights when the 
weather was warm, 
We used to walk about, 

In silence, or talking softly close to one an- 
other, 
Houses and trees in moonlight. 

Chatterton. I have seen them pass and 

turn the corner, 
Colors shining in their wings and their heads 

rubies. 
I will begin building myself webs, 
Delicate thought leading to delicate thought. 

Rowley. To catch flies? 

Chatterton. To catch an earth tumbling 

on through space 
And suck it dry. I have made a Bristol out 

of rhyme 
And peopled it with nobles, sat at their feasts, 

3 



Talked and heard ; 

But I am tired of make-believe, of being- a 

scrivener's apprentice, 
Mother and sister, sempstresses, a family of 

servants. 
Some mole from prison; 

But I shout the way Jews shouted at Jericho. 
There are birds in heaven, who rides Pegasus 

may catch some. 
Days like grains of sand slip through my 

fingers, 
While I am idle on this accidental shore where 

I was born ; 
But I have feet to walk away and maybe 

wings. 

Chatterton's Mother (is heard calling). 
Tommy, Tommy ! 
Time to be back at Mr. Lambert's. 

Scene Two 
Burgum (to his wife). Here, a document 

that may interest you : 
My family tree. You see the name 
Was once de Bergham. Norman de Bergham 

who fought at Hastings. 
You didn't think when you were marrying 
A pewterer, that he had blue blood. 
As in a fairy tale, the beggar is a prince. 

Here's the coat of arms. 

Burgum's Wife. Yes, 

Like a fairy tale. This document 
Does not look old. 

Burgum. Of course not. 

It is a copy of the originals. 



There is a boy named Chatterton. 
His uncle is the sexton of St. Mary's. 
The boy played at dolls with the church's 
Old parchments, learned his letters from them. 
Colston's apprenticed him to Mr. Lambert, 
The scrivener. Now and then the boy still 

visits 
The old church, rummages the papers, 
Hopes to become an antiquarian, if you please. 
The other day he came upon my name, 
That is, de Bergham, and knowing of me, 
Searched and found all, of which he made 
This copy. I saw the originals. 
They are, of course, the church's. They were 

smoky, 
As if candle-smoked, scarcely read. 

Burgum's Wife. Perhaps it is a swindle. 
Did you give 
Money? 

Burgum. He is not bright enough to swin- 
dle; 
Dreamy, the kind swindled. As proud as 

Punch, 
Too proud to stoop to petty knavery. 
I gave him five shillings. Perhaps, 
I swindled him : a lot of work here. 

Burgum's Wife. Five shillings for that 
paper ! 
I scrimp and you waste money so. 

Burgum. He went to so much trouble. 
And really he did not want the money. 
I had to urge him. He seemed displeased. 

5 



Burgum's Wife. That he could get no 
more. 

Burgum. That he was tipped 

For just a friendly service, I thought. 
He is a friendly boy . . . 

I have been thinking . . . we are growing old. 
If we had children, a girl, perhaps, to help you, 
Or a lad, a lad like this, 
Whom I could teach my business, what I 

have learnt 
At such cost . . . 

Perhaps the shop would be less dull. 
The lad comes of decent folk, is poor, 
And starved for friendship — it was just a 

fancy. 

Burgum's Wife. We have been alone to- 
gether 

So many years. Perhaps a nephew — but a 
stranger 

At the table and beside the fire. 

Why should we change? 

Burgum. It was just a fancy. 

Scene Three 

(In Walpole's mansion-hause, Strawberry 
Hill) 

Walpole (giving a manuscript) . The poems 

of which I wrote you, Gray, 
Those found in a church at Bristol, the work 
Of one Rowley, a priest when Edward the 

Fourth was king. 
Spirited and harmonious. 
I wrote this Chatterton to send more. 



These came and this about himself : 
A poor widow's son, apprenticed to a scriv- 
ener, 
The work irks him, and won't I send money 
That he may buy freedom and spend time in 

writing. 
It seems he dabbles in verse or wants to 
dabble. 

Gray (who has been dipping into the manu- 
script). A forgery I 

This is modern as yesterday's gazette : 

Modern words, consonants merely doubled ; 

Obsolete words, taken from any glossary to 
Chaucer, 

Stuck into an idiom, modern as yesterday's 
gazette. 

Walpole. Why flare up? The worm would 
crawl 

Out of his rain-filled hole. 

Of course, I'll write him to stand his ap- 
prenticeship, practice the profession, 

And when he will have made his fortune, write. 

But why should you be angry at him, Gray? 

What could your mother, the milliner, have 
done? 

By chance, you had an uncle, rich and child- 
less. 

Uncle Antrobus made Eton and Cambridge 
possible, 

Travel and contemplation, time to see, think, 
write. 

After all, the Elegy is your only poem. 

You felt that, how narrowly you might have 
been 

Another "mute, inglorious Milton" in the host, 

7 



The "youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown". 
As for me, Walpole's son, 

From Strazvberry Hill I dare not write un- 
kindly 
To this Bristol starveling. 

Gray. Kind of you, Walpole. 

Walpole. Then I'll not write at all. I'll let 

it drop. 
The lad's a swindler. Why should I help him ? 
If he's a poet, that's his pleasure. 
If he's a man, he'll stand on his own feet. 
If he cannot and his poetry is lost, 
A lot is lost. How many poets do wars kill, 
And plagues? Ten thousand acorns on the 

oak, 
That one oak may grow again. 
Why should I water acorns? Besides, 
The lad has home, food, and not arduous 

work, 
Why should he beg? The great poets, Gray, 
Have been citizens, capable 
In the business about them : Aeschylus, 
A soldier with the rest at Marathon, 
Sophocles, an admiral, Dante, 
The politician, and Shakespeare — 
Not recluses in a college like you, Gray. 

Gray. Certainly not forgers. 

Walpole. Why should you be angry at him, 
Gray? 
What could your mother, the milliner, have 

done, 
Unless your Uncle Antrobus . . . 

8 



Scene Four 

Lambert's Mother (to servant). Tell your 
master that I must see him 
At once! (To Lambert when he comes). 
That charity-school brat ! Read this : 
Suicide, if we do not let him go. 
Suddenly to come upon a body, 
Like stepping on a mouse in a dark hallway; 
Or have a servant rush up to me, 
Hear a shriek in the next room ; let him go ! 

Lambert. What's this? A will and testa- 
ment? 

Lambert's Mother. It says that he is going 
to kill himself 
And so writes this, his last testament. 
Where is he? 

Lambert. Safe in the office. 

I'll pound him good and proper for the joke, 
Wasting time in writing this 
And scaring you. 

Lambert's Mother. Don't bother with him. 

Cancel his prentice papers, rid the house of 
him. 

He quarrels with the servants ; makes such 
faces, 

Talking to me or you, some day he'll spring at 
us. 

And what have we done? We've given him a 
good home, God knows, 

And you are teaching him your own profes- 
sion. 

I used to offer buns or a tart at first, 

Carried them in my pocket just for him; 

9 



But he would glare so at me, refuse, 

And snarl his thanks. He's out of his mind, 

And if he should do, what here he threatens, 

There'll be no stilling the town's talk, 

How we ill-used the orphan and drove him 

to it. 
Your friends may call upon the council 
For investigations ; then we are 
At a spiteful servant's mercy. Pack him offl 
I won't sleep another night 
With that boy in the house. 

Lambert. This will of his 

Will be a good excuse. I have been disap- 
pointed 
More than I cared to tell you. Those at Col- 
ston's 
Thought highly of him, highly enough 
To apprentice him to a scrivener; but he has 

proved 
Unaccountably dull at times, lazy and insolent, 
Not in so many words, but, as you say, in 

manner. 
I'll have him in. (To footman) Send in Chat- 

terton. 
Send for his mother, too. 
(To Chatterton) Well, my whippersnapper, 
So you're going to commit suicide. 
Here's a pocket-knife. Or perhaps, 
Mother will send for arsenic, which the porter 
Makes into a paste for rats. 

Lambert's Mother. Stop! 

Lambert. So you don't like being my ap- 
prentice. 
You needn't be. You were glad enough 

10 



To become such, if I remember. 
Wait here until your mother comes. 
We'll sign the necessary quittance 
And then, march! Look here, 
If you make such faces at me, 
I'll smash your face. You're still 
My apprentice and I have the right 
To beat you, which I have never done, 
I ought to be ashamed to say. (Lambert and 
his mother go out.) 

Scene Five 

(The same room in Lambert's house at twi- 
light.) 

Chatterton's Mother. Why does he keep 
us waiting so? 
O Tommy, are you sure you're right? 
You didn't intend suicide, did you, Tommy? 

Chatterton. Mother, quit calling me Tom- 
my. 
Of course I didn't intend suicide; 
It was a trick to scare Lambert, 
And make him let me go; didn't it work? 

Chatterton's Mother. Everybody thought 
it such a good thing, 

When Mr. Lambert took you for his appren- 
tice. 

And you did, too. 

Chatterton. I was sick of that school, 
Boys and masters. 

Chatterton's Mother. You were glad 
enough to be taken into Colston's. 
It is not for anybody's asking. 

11 



Chatterton. I would have learnt more by 

myself 
At home. I thought that they would teach 
Greek and Hebrew, English; they taught 

arithmetic 
And how to write in a good, round hand — 
What else? 

Chatterton's Mother. That, too, is needed, 
Thomas. 

Chatterton. For me, 

Life is too short-winded and strength too 

weak 
To waste. I thought through Lambert 
To escape, that here I would have — for my- 
self — more time. 
I have, but not enough. 
I grudge fractions of my life 
To copying mortgages. 

Chatterton's Mother. But how are you to 
make a living? 

Chatterton. From the work I want to do. 

The Gentlemen's Magazine of London 

Has taken a poem of mine; 

I have two essays in the next Cave's Monthly; 

And one who plans a new magazine, 

Writes me from London, "Thomas Chatter- 
ton, Esquire, 

Dear Sir : — I count upon your help" and so 
forth. 

You and sister will go in silks ; 

The proudest here in Bristol will be glad to 
know you. 

How can I stay in Bristol four years more 

To become at last a scrivener, 

When I have now such work and future in 
London. 

Footman. Mr. Lambert will see you. (The 
darkened room is left empty.) 

12 



Scene Six 

(Chatter ton is writing in a dingy room. A fat 
old woman, Mrs. Ballance, enters. She seats 
herself. Chatterton keeps staring in her face.) 

Mrs. Ballance. You must excuse me, Cou- 
sin Tommy, but as your mother's cousin, 

And older than yourself ; as it were, in charge 
of you ; 

For didn't your mother send you here to live? 

You have been in London going on two weeks. 

At first, quite proper and natural, 

A young man to go about, seeing the town ; 

And London must seem so big to you from 
Bristol, 

I know how it was when I came to London ; 

But you can't keep on so, now can you ? 

You must try for a place in an office. 

I wouldn't speak of any kind of work 

For a young man like you, 

Who likes to read and practices penmanship; 

But a genteel clerkship in an office ? 

And must you stay up the night long? 

It isn't good for the eyes and you're looking 
peaked as it is. 

You needn't stare so, Tommy. 

The young man who rooms with you, has 
complained to Mr. Walmsley, 

"I can't sleep nights with him having his can- 
dle lit and scratching paper." 

It isn't I that am complaining, child. 

I only mean the best for you. 

Young people complain, but we old 

Are glad to take the world as it is. 

Many a bitter talk I had with myself, 

Or with father and mother, and later with 
Ballance ; 

And here am I, an old woman, 

Pains in me every moment I'm awake, 

Husband dead and little I knew of him 

When he was alive, sailing the seas, 

And no children, never had any; 

I go on living quietly, 

13 



Doing chores I'm lucky enough to get, 
Frying my bit of supper at night; 
Thank God, a roof over me. 
When I die, I'll say to God, 
Just like a lady leaving a party, 
"I've had a fine time, thank You." 
Not that I mean it all, but He'll know 
I mean some of it, and after all, 
He does the best He can, I suppose . . . 

Scene Seven 

(The office of Fell, owner and editor of The 
Freeholder's Magazine.) 

Fell. Mr. Chatterton ! Sit down, sir. Here. 
The chair is rickety, 
But, pshaw ! this is all makeshift. 
I am to be in funds. A lord — 
I have sincere promises. 
Then, sir, you will see a large room, 
Grey carpet, delft blue curtains, 
No furniture at all, sir, 
Just desk and chair, and next to these, 
A visitor's chair. Space ! 
If I had money, I would build a house 
On a hill, overlooking a sweep of fields; and 

I would have 
Great loaves baked in my ovens. 
Whoever wanted to, 
Could come and live with us . . . 
You are young, Mr. Chatterton, 
For your mature style. 
Your letters are as good as Junius. 
Mr. Wilkes remarked your letters. 
We must have you meet the Lord Mayor. 
You did well to come. In a month, 
You'll be the talk of London, young as you 

are; 
You'll be gaped at in the coffee-houses. 
The Freeholder's Magazine is proud 
To have your writings. Come, your promise f 
You must show me everything. 

Chatterton. I am sorry, Mr. Fell, but Mr. 

14 



Hamilton of Town and Country 
Has bespoken an article, ten pounds to be 
paid me ; but other — 

Fell. The Court's enemies — and the Court 
Has enemies — are raising a fund. 
The Freeholder's Magazine has become 
A power ; it must not be allowed to fall, to 

slacken. 
For the next issue I must have from you . . . 

Scene Eight 

Chatterton's Sister (is reading a letter to 
their mother and grandmother.) . . . settled 
in comfortable lodgings in Brooke Street 
where I have a room to myself. 

I shall engage to write a history of England 
for Mr. Dodsley, the bookseller. Mr. Wilkes 
knows me by my writings. He has affirmed 
what Fell had of mine could not be the prod- 
uct of a youth. Creditors have sent Fell to 
King's Bench, he having offended certain per- 
sons; but I am bettered by this. His succes- 
sors in The Freeholder's Magazine will be 
glad to engage me on my terms. Buy the 
next number of Town and Country. It has 
an article of mine for which I have been paid 
ten pounds. 

I am to be introduced to Mr. Beckford, the 
Lord Mayor. I will ensure Mrs. Ballance an 
allowance from The Trinity House, a founda- 
tion for widows of deserving seamen. 

Do not worry about my clothes. London 
is not Bristol. Dress is not discussed here. 
If a man dresses well, praise ; but if not, noth- 
ing is said. He is prudent. 

Tell Katon and Mease to send me whatever 
poems they have and I will see them placed. 
I am sending you some trifling presents : six 
cups and saucers with two basins, two fans, 
and for grandmother, some tobacco and a 
pipe. 

15 



Scene Nine 

(The room in back of Hodge's shop. Hodge's 
wife at the window.) 

Hodge's Wife. Quick, husband, there he 
goes. Run and ask him in. 

Hodge. You know I've asked many a time 
And he's refused. 

Hodge's Wife. But now he's starving. 
Look, how pale and thin he's grown and can 

hardly walk. 
Hurry ! 

Hodge. Why should I keep humiliating my- 
self 

Before a boy, who is nothing after all to me, 

A stranger, who moves into a garret next door 
a month ago, 

And in another month out and away. 

I offer what slight help I can, am rebuffed, 

That's the end of it. 

Who offers bones to stray curs — that snap. 

Hodge's Wife. You're a man and he's only 
a silly proud boy. 
He's starving and we have so much. 
Quick ! he's at his door. Go or I'll go. 

Hodge. You soft-hearted fool ! (He kisses 
her and goes out. She prepares bread and 
butter and tea. Her husband comes back with 
Chatterton.) 

Chatterton. Pardon me . . . your husband 
insisted . . . 

Hodge's Wife. We are always glad to have 
a guest for tea. Won't you sit here? 
(They sit down. At first Chatterton eats 
slowly, then gorges.) 

Chatterton. Pardon me ... I had so 
much to do, 

16 



Rose late for breakfast and quite forgot 

lunch — 
And now myself. No more, thank you. 
I find that eating makes me stupider than I 

am. 

Hodge's Wife. But we must eat 

Chatterton. Yes, we are that much ani- 
mal, 

Not trees, chained to earth, 

Nor even beasts with four feet on it; 

But if we could like moths that have no en- 
trails, 

Live our day or two, untroubled by food, 

And our work done, die. 

Hodge's Wife. But a man's work can not 
be done in a day or two. 

Chatterton. No, it takes a lifetime. 

Hodge. What is your work, neighbor? 
When I close shop at midnight, 
I see your candle burning. Do you read so 

late ? 
You must be fond of reading. 

Chatterton. I used to be; 

But now the taste is easily chewed out 
Of what I read. Each generation 
Finds the charm again — for a while. 
These dry words of ours were poetry. 
Take mouse from a verb that meant in Sans- 
krit, 
Steal; a thief, now called a mouse, 
If many use it, mouse is plain thief, 
The mouse forgotten. Whatever men can 

make 
Has their mortality. Talking of mice, 
A rat haunts my room. Can you spare ar- 
senic? 

Hodge. Certainly. 

Let me get some while we talk of it. (He 
goes out) 

17 



Hodge's Wife. But what do you do? 

Chatterton. I write — 

Music after a fashion ; a sulky music, 
Made out of ordinary speech, 
The way a sculptor might make statues 
Out of sand, or carve wooden spools 
The housewife throws away. 

Hodge's Wife. . . . Whatever you do, 
You must take care of yourself to do it. 
Eat well and in time ; but if you are poor, 
What is there to be ashamed of? 
Jesus was poor, the apostles begged their way. 
We have enough and to spare. 
You must come and eat with us ; 
Pride in such a little matter 
Is silly. Be proud of your work 
And humble yourself for it. When you can, 
You will repay. 

What a little matter and not worth this fuss ! 
Promise that you are coming in to supper. 
Promise me! 

Chatterton. Why? 

Hodge's Wife. Do you not love your work? 

Chatterton. I used to . . . 
I might write reams, catch in that mass of 

cobweb 
A few phrases, in time sucked dry. 
When I was a boy I played at blocks ; and 

then tired, 
Gave the little building a kick ; down 
It came with a little crash. 
Why did I grow tired? I saw 
The little building empty and its sky, 
The plaster ceiling. 

Hodge (entering). Here's your arsenic. 

Chatterton. Thanks. I must go. Thanks 
for your friendliness. 

Hodge's Wife. I'll keep supper waiting. 
You must come. 

18 



Chattekton. Good-bye. (He goes out.) 

Hodge's Wife. Hodge ... I think . . . 
Take back the arsenic ! 

Hodge Why? 

Hodge's Wife. He'll poison himself ! 

Hodge. You have such fancies. 

Hodge's Wife. Tell him you were mistaken, 
it isn't arsenic. Run, take it away ! 

Hodge. Don't be silly. 

Scene Ten 

(In his garret, Chatterton pours the arsenic 
into a glass of water, but hesitates to drink. 
On his table are papers which he tears up, 
strewing the floor. He reads') 

Item: One poem, one shilling; item: one 

article, five pounds ; two songs, one shilling ; 

one squib . . . (He tears up the sheet.) 

Dear Doctor Barrett : — I implore you by 

your former kindness to help me to a position 

on an African brig. I have come to the end 

of my resources and have neither strength 

nor prospects to strengthen me. (He tears it 

up.) 

August first, one month and no answer. He 
might have answered, even a refusal. 
(Dipping into and tearing to bits manu- 
script until the floor is covered.) Trash, 
trash ! 

Tories, Whigs, Lord This, Lord That. Eng- 
land. 

Will England last longer than Rome or Egypt ? 

It will not outlast the earth. 

What have I to do with these, to build argu- 
ments 

For the Court, against the Court, 

That I may eat, lodge, write more arguments. 

If men were like winds with no important 
bellies 

19 



That fill, empty, and must be filled daily; 

If I were rich enough to wander 

Beside rivers or through streets; 

Put words together carefully. 

But to write this over and over, 

That I may live, 

Teach my feet to walk to prose, 

Cant, rant, smart as any . . . 

I might eat there . . . 

But will they not tire? 

What money can there be in my traffic with 
the moon. 

What is your business? Did they not ask 
to-night ? 

And afterwards surely. 

But what is business for a man? 

Sell clothes or grain, 

Ride waves, furrow the earth, the gull's com- 
panion or the ox's ; 

Build house or bridge for men to crawl upon; 

Try to comprehend the world in whose sky 

Earth is a star? 

These green grains of arsenic 

Will dissolve the earth 

Into the nothingness that once it was ; 

Unflesh me of my hungers, those persistent 
curs, 

Pull out the riddles worming in my brain, 

And write the answer zero 

To the subtraction. 

Too long a grace over so little meat. {He 
drinks the poison and walks up and down 
in silent agony.") 

Scene Eleven 

{The same room at night. Chatterton goes to 
the tvindow.) 

The street-lamps under the clouded night 

Have made the sky grey. Half the earth 

Is dark. In the universal night 

Day was a little shelter. 

"Is it not beautiful," they would say 

Of light. Burning-glass, 

20 



Resting your spot of light on me. 

When floor and street were stinking hot, 

I am rid of you. 

No longer to fly about you, sun, with other 

moths ; 
Because I burn. 

Rid of you, too, broken trinket 
In the rhinestone glitter of stars, 
TJnburied corpse, swelling and misshapen, 
Eaten away by those white ants, the stars. 
Shine, sun and moon, for those at ease ; 
For these you are beautiful ; 
But to me, caught in this street, 
A small cloud travelling across a cloudy sky, 
A stick now caught in the surf, 
Being drawn away, now flung ashore, 
To be drawn away again ; 

A poisoned rat that slowly leaves his hole — 
Tf T were Sampson 
To push these walls away. 

Scene Twelve 

{An alley into ivhich Chatterton enters from 
the crowded street.) 

I place anger upon my head like an iron 

crown, hurting my temples ; 
I would fillip the carriages and speed them 

screeching away ; 
Like a truckman, lashing his horses 
Until they pound the stone pavement with 

broad hoofs, sparks flying about them, 
Strike and strike. 

If I had the anger of a cloud, 

I would scoop up rain in my palms and fling 
it upon the people, bowing heads and hur- 
rying into doorways ; 

Then with lightning I would split the houses 

And fire cover the ruins like a sudden fungus. 

Pile up cities, trample grass into pavement, 

for every tree, chimneys; 
With your steep hills of brick, cover the 

earth ; 

21 



My resignation is tendered. . . . 

Pit}' these walls, winds and ram, 
Pity these habitations of men. 

Will London, too, be a waste like Babylon? 
They will build again by other rivers. 

Will they not be tired at last as I am, 
When they have dragged the unknown mer- 
chandise, 
If the wagon carries any; 
In reins and blinkers, 
Have made the same turns and gone the same 

streets 
Often enough? 

Scene Thirteen 

(Chatterton climbs to the top of a hill.) 

These trees with many arms stretch out and 

up 
To hold me. So is life sweetened 
To make it palatable. 
Desires, satiety, our uncertain doom and of 

those dear to us, 
Human ills like numbering itself, 
Senses and mind make endurable : 
As in the taste of food, for which we try 

much tasteless, stale, or rancid ; 
As in a few words' meaning, for which we 

hear 
So much trite and foolish. 
For keener sight we pay with keener sight 
Of ugly streets and ugly men and women. 
The good, itself part pay for sorrow, the lure 

to keep us living, 
Through our senses and our minds 
We must pay back with usury. 
If we play red or black, we lose. 
Still, the players have the game's excitement. 
But must I sit it out? Surely a loser 
May leave early. 
I'll take no more goods, pay 

22 



No more bills. Although a little sooner than 

the rest, 
File a bankruptcy petition ; 
The store locked, the blinds down, the clerks 

discharged. 
Beautiful striped fabric, green and blue of 

day and the dark band of night, 
Embroidered so closely and ingeniously, 
I cannot handle you at a profit. 
Business is bad, 

Or, perhaps, I am a bad business man. 
Now let me deal in the plain black shoddy of 

death. 

Scene Fourteen 

Chatterton. Ocean, bitter salt water, larger 
than continents, incessantly troubled, 

In whose cold night the fish and knotted 
weeds have their being, 

Feeding upon each other and drowned men ; 

Loud in my own ears, 

At a little distance I am dumb, mouth open, 
shrill and dumb ; 

As here those other waves are silent, 

An edge of white along the black water. 

Silence is more dignified than speech ; 

Certainly more dignified than ineffectual 
speech ; 

And dignity is most dignity, 

When in the stiff persistent pose of death. 

Let me be dignified at last. Let me, 

Chatterton, the scrivener's apprentice, 

The listener-in at circles of the great in cof- 
fee-houses, 

The great-eyed watcher from the walks of 
those 

In carriages or on horses, be dignified as any. 

He-who was hungry shall himself give food. 

And who was badly clothed and sheltered, 
shall himself 

Be a lodging. Munificence of death . . . 

Beautiful, you were beautiful, sea, and beau- 
tiful was your companion, land. 

23 



But what is beauty merely? A beautiful wom- 
an, 

Seen often enough, her skin is skin, 

Hair, hair, eyes, eyes, nose, nose, mouth, 
mouth, 

Blurred into a face. 

I am a drunken man who leans aside, vomit- 
ing", 

And from his other side pushes the woman. 

Scene Fifteen 

(Night. A square in the city. On the benches 
are seated men and women, among them 
Chatterton.) 

A Girl (to Chatterton). Jolly in the work- 
room, all the girls at tables ; 

As they work, they laugh and chatter to each 
other, 

Laugh and chatter at each other. 

Now and then, the old forewoman screams; 

And all are silent for a moment, 

Then begin to whisper, 

And are laughing, chattering noisily as ever; 

Until the old forewoman screams 

And all are silent for a moment, but a mo- 
ment. 

The heavy white-washed timbers of the ceil- 
ing, 

The red brick walls, unplastered and un- 
painted — 

I make believe that I am in my castle sewing 

And the others are my maids about me, all 
my maids in rows along the hall. 

The old forewoman, rudely interrupting, 

Is a parrot, that my lord and master brought 
me from the east ; 

And we all are sewing brocade, pearls and 
gold thread upon velvet, 

For my lord and master and myself. 

What we sew is shoddy and we sew on wood- 
en buttons, painted black to look like bone, 
Sewing fast with hard stout cotton ; 

24 



And T laugh out shrilly at the girl who siti 

beside me, 
And we all laugh out together, 
And we try to make each other small as each 

one knows herself ; 
Only to the old forewoman we speak gently. 
And when we catch her looking we sew auay, 

away. 
When the streets in winter are still befogged 

with night, 
Or early summer mornings when the sky is 

blue and cool — 

A Second Girl. Why should she complain, 

who is out 
Among others, making friends with girls and, 

perhaps, men ; 
While I have to stay home among pots and 

dishes, 
The broom's companion. 

An Old Woman. Why should either of 
you talk, 

Young and strong. The old should complain, 

Servants to our daughters and our sons' wives. 

Scolded and taught — much good it does us — 

We hold our mouths close ; 

No use talking to the young and wise. 

We sit beside the stove. Our spoons shake 

When we lift them to our lips; 

We spill food over ourselves, 

Dirty with age. The hair has fallen 

From our scalps, leaving us bald women; 

And into the deep wrinkles of our faces, 

Dirt sifts. We keep staring 

Out of flabby eyes. Strength has gone from 
us 

Suddenly. We had just begun making our- 
selves comfortable, 

Now our children are grown up, we had been 
saying, 

Now we know that we are neither to be great 
nor rich, 

Let us rest a while, 

Let us begin to take pleasure in our lives, 

25 



Such as they are; and saying so, 
We found ourselves old. 

An Old Man (to Chatterton). Aren't you 
sick of stories of the poor? 

But if we knew Csesar or a scholar like Abe- 
lard, 

Perhaps we would wonder 

How easily men become great among men; 

And if we could see Helen herself, we might 
say, 

I have seen such. 

The great and little hang from the mind, 

Leaves of a tree until the winter of death; 

Again and again, the mind stirs to a noisy 
life 

Lives of many, pebbles along its shore ; 

But are you not eager to forget 

The faces of men and women 

And your own ugly face? 

A Woman. Look at the froth on his lips. 

Another Woman. He has poisoned him- 
self. 



26 



THE BLACK DEATH. 



THE BLACK DEATH 

Scene One 

(A room in a Jezv's house in a town of west- 
ern Europe at the beginning of the fourteenth 
century. Two old Jews, the master of the 
house and a guest, have just dined. They say 
in a low voice the benediction after eating. 
After a pause) 

Host. What news? 

Guest. In our Granada the Messiah has 
not come. 
Some of us do well, some not so well. 

Host. To judge from what in our syna- 
gogue 
Some say, I thought that in Granada 
Jews rode the clouds for carriages. 
Thanks for your news of no news. 
Have you not heard of a new sickness 
Coming westward ? 

Guest. I hear of this and that always. 
Young, each new war I asked about 
Eagerly, and what new book? I used to ask. 
I saw then whatever is, matters, 
But afterwards saw, matters slightly. 
So deeply rooted in the earth is man, 
Nothing to the tree can matter much, 
Until in its own time it age and die. 
Why still be fluttered 
By news of doctrines and king's policies, 
Even disasters? 

Host. But if this wind 

Carry you away? 

Guest. It will. 

Tell me about my room, 

My street, my chair, or dish, about the sun 
Or night. I like the rough touch of bread, 

28 



The warm smell it had, the brown loaf 
Upon the table. The room with this sunlight 
On the floor, or at night, 
The candle's glow against the darkness. 

Host. This sickness worries me. Have 

debtors 
Here and there, and then, life itself — 
My daughter . . . 
Doctors see death many times, but a doctor 

is in tears, 
When his own mother dies. If you thought 
This sickness would come home, you too 
Could not shake off this news so lightly. 
Do you know that Christians indebted to us, 
Say that we spread the plague? 

Guest. When we were in Egypt, a pharaoh 

came 
Who knew not Joseph. When Charlemagne 

was emperor, 
He sent for us. Charlemagne is dead. 
A time to read holy books in rooms 
Whose windows open upon gardens. 
Does not winter follow summer? 
The)' had it well and we must have it ill. 
Is this news? 

Host. That Judah had back his own land 
And we were in our walled town, Jerusalem ; 
That we were ploughing our land, 
And that our poets spoke their own speech, 
Not Aramaic or Spanish. 

Guest. Had Israel a land? Was Canaan 
ours, 
Which we took a while and never held 
Again -t Assyrian or Roman? 
When Solomon was king was the land 
Israel's? 

"My father punished you with whips," 
Rehoboam said. 
Palestine was a halting-place, 
One of many. Our kin, the Arabs, 

29 



Wander over their desert. Our desert 
Is the earth. Our strength 
Is that we have no land. 
Nineveh and Babylon, our familiar cities, 
Became dust; but we Jews had left 
For Alexandria and Rome. 
When the land is impoverished, as lands be- 
come, 
The tree dies. Israel is not planted, 
Israel is in the wind. Cut at the wind 
With swords, set fires under it; 
A little smoke a little while, the smoke 
Uncurls and is gone. Take no threats to heart; 
This may be the end of you and me; 
But for all the grains of sand blown 
From the desert, the desert is ; 
And all the waves that spill upon the shores 
Leave the sea full. 

Host. Some get drunk on words, but I, 

like most, 
Must have substance. Thanks for your words, 
I offer wine. (He does so. Before drinking, 
they say the benediction in a low voice.) 

Scene Two 
(The council chamber of the town.) 
First Councillor. Month after month and 
all day long, fog, 
In which their sun was a yellow stain 
And men and trees turned yellow 
And then grey. At times the earth suddenly 

heaved 
And shook. 

Second Councillor. They say 
Crowded China and India are dead. 

First Councillor. The Genoese fleeing 
Crimean Caffa 
Report Armenia covered with dead 
Along roads, blocking streets of towns, 
And in deserts caravans, 
Their men, camels, and dogs dead; 
The Kurds fled to the hills and dying 

30 



On cliffs, in gorges ; and ships, crews dead, 
Blown about the Black Sea. 

Third Councillor. What Noah's ark can 
ride this flood? 

First Councillor. The dying Turks be- 
sieging Caffa 

Tied their own dead instead of stones upon 
the catapults 

And shot them to the city ; the Genoese 

Scraped from roofs and cobblestones, 

Until the harbor bobbed with bloody scraps 

And white bellies of dead fish. 

Who could among 1 the Genoese took ship 

And fled — to die in Italy 

And bring their kinsmen death. 

Heathen and Christian, man and beast alike, 

As if there were no God Who set man and 
beast apart, 

No Saviour for the Christians. 

Third Councillor. In Africa are cities 
In which nothing lives. No smudge of fire 

upon the walls ; 
An enemy, not to be shot at, overcame them. 
God sends a flood to drown sinners. 

The Mayor (entering). The plague is near. 

I have the news from Rudolph, 
Back from his trading. At Coblenz half are 

dead, the rest in the fields, 
From which the peasants drive them. And 

so elsewhere. 
The citizens look to us ; we must not in the 

thunder and lightning of these times 
Become ourselves distracted. There are enough 

who will be. 
Here and now we must consider how to save 

the city; 
And if our means will not avail, as probably 

they will not, 
What means we have to care for sick, dead, 

and the remnant. 
As to the known causes of this disease, 

31 



This is clear: it spreads from man to man; 
The sick poison the sound by touch or breath, 
Or by the body's odour; for, it is said, 
The sick at once decay. We must decree, 

therefore, 
That no one come within our walls, stranger 

or former townsman. 

First Councillor. Rudolph has come. 

Mayor. From Rudolph we have learnt the 
danger. 
Let no one in ; let in no merchandise. 

Third Councillor. What good are walls, 
What good decrees, when you wall in 
The Jews with us? 

Second Councillor. The plague, Jews say, 
is their Messiah. 

First Councillor. They may be innocent 
or they may be guilty, 

Who knows ? We know that they are strangers, 

Who lived among Chaldeans and Assyrians, 

And are suddenly here 

In our everyday streets, this fourteenth cen- 
tury. 

Mayor. My people ! like a lost traveller, 
Who fears on each bough a beast's implacable 

hate, 
Or in a bush a suddenly moving snake. . . . 
But even if the Jews are harmless, they should 

be watched 
To quiet those of us who fear them, and 

perhaps, 
They are not harmless. Let all of them be 

shut up in one house. 
Let their wealth be taken into our fund; 
Apart, they still are part of us ; 
And must bear our sorrow with their own. 
But let a watch be set about the house 
That none go in or out, and that none 
Still harm those whom we now harm . . . 

32 



For all decrees, whether we live or die, 
Turns on a game of chance, in which we are 
The coins ; of some value, each with a human 

face ; 
This kept, hut this, from the same die — (The 

mayor vomits a stream of blood and 

pitches across the table. The others, 

aghast, leave.) 

Scene Three 

(Before the house of the Jezvs. The guard 
calls to a passer-by.) 

Guard. Neighbor ! 

Passer- By. My daughter is dead. 

Guard. She ? 

Passeu-By. She, too. 
I wrapped her in the sheet in which she lay 
And carried her beyond the walls. 
Now I am plague, 
Breathing plague, carrying plague in my hands. 

Guard You might have waited 
Until those whose work it is 
Took care of her. 

Passer-By. The rich 

With jewels in their ears and linen bed-clothes 
Are cared for. Who takes care of us ? 
Among scavengers who carted in the dead, 
Were fathers and mothers dragging dead 

children 
And children dragging dead parents. 
I left her in a pit, deeper than a man un- 

helped could climb from, 
Shallow with dead. 

She who loved whatever lived, and at work, 
Stroked dishes and furniture, 
Tore at herself, 
As if to pull up the thick root, her heart, 

33 



And end the plague's violence. 

Guard. She was not alone in suffering. 

Passer-By. So much the worse. 

Guard. If good times pass, bad times also 
pass. 

Passer-By. Yes, we shall rebuild. We have 
the spider's stubborn mechanism ; 
To stop and reason is to starve and die. 
So you are still on guard. 
The magistrates can still spare men to guard 
The emperor's precious Jews. 

Guard. We guard ourselves. 

Some say that they have seen 
Jews blowing plague upon us 
In eastern dust. 

Passer-By. Have Jews brought this plague? 

Guard It is said so. 

Passer-By. I would dig into their flesh ! 

Hurting may be a cure for hurt. 

Can I revenge myself upon the stars, 

Or whatever makes this this or that that, 

My daughter live and then my daughter dead. 

If Jews bring this death, the world's intelli- 
gible. 

But if Jews bring this death, who is the prin- 
cipal 

Of these agents? Jews, sea-hydras, lions, rats, 
and vermin 

We kill, rightly we think ; these, small as 
ourselves. 

We can not reach beyond our reach. 

And so are not to see beyond our sight . . . 

Jews, I have had too much of death 

To kill. Kill or be killed, I am indifferent. 

(A crowd enters, circling about three musi- 
cians. Their instruments are a large drum, 

34 



a viol, and a pipe. The viol and pipe play 
snatches of jolly songs. As he talks, the 
drummer beats his drum.) 

Drummer. Listen, all of you, plague-sick 
or to-be-plague-sick, 

To my speech, like a Jew's speech, voluble, 

Hot and salted with the name of God, his 
famous countryman ; 

Listen, you men and women, strutting like 
lunatics, 

Each thinking himself or herself, god or god- 
dess, 

Or at least king or queen; be comforted, each 
of you, saith your prophet, 

You are not Atlas to the world's stability. 

Laugh, shout, scream, or weep; 

Leap, stand, kneel, or lie down, 

The heavens stay up, the world endures. 

Death comes suddenly or slowly; be careless 
or take thought, 

Death is a plague with which we are all in- 
fected. 

What good will crying to the Lord for mercy 
do us? 

Has He mercy upon fish or upon beetles? 

The dogs are His ; does He bother more about 
them? 

Just, His tribes are equal. 

Eat, drink, and be merry, it was said; to- 
morrow we die. 

To-morrow, they said, meaning some day; 

But for us it is literal, to-morrow we die. 

What shall we eat and drink? Have we 
money? 

Take to-day, I answer, whatever you wish, 
for to-morrow you die. 

If you are made in God's image, be cruel 

As He to just and unjust, wolves and cattle. 

Take whatever you wish, for to-morrow you 
die. 

The Jews' house 1 

(The crozvd flings itself against the door. The 
35 



flagellants are heard coming. The monk 
enters, staggering under a huge crucifix. He 
is follozved by a procession of barefoot men 
and women, singing a hymn, in their left 
hands lighted candles. They whip them- 
selves. ) 

The Monk. The cherubim are hushed and 
sorrowful 
The Lord arises, looking down to us. . . . 
For our sins, O Lord, for our sins ! 

A Flagellant. The Lord is just! 

Another. Else no order! 

Another. The Lord is merciful ! 

The Monk, {pointing at the Jew's house). 
Sinners have brought the plague upon us ! 
(All push against the door. In the clamour 
are heard drum, viol and pipe, and the flagel- 
lants' hymn.) 

Scene Four 

(Within the Jezvs' house. Either side the door 
Jews, zvrapped in prayer-cloths, stand at their 
prayers, rocking backwards and forzvards. 
Nozv and then their chant is lifted into a wail. 
Suddenly the shouting outside and the pound- 
ing on the door stop. The Jezvs stare at each 
other. Then the door is struck a powerful 
blow. Those outside are using a beam as a 
ram. The blow is repeated at intervals. 

Scene Five 

(In the same town, within a Jew's house. 
The master of the house and a guest have just 
dined.) 

Host. What news among our Jews in 
Hamburg? 

36 



Guest. Much as here. 

If you have time to-morrow, show me 
Where; the massacre was. 

Host. The first visit to our city? 

Guest. Yes. 

How do you live among the Gentiles now? 

Host. Not worse than you in Hamburg. 

Guest. Evil done to man, like this plague, 
and evil men do, 
Like sores upon a healthy body, scab and fall 
off. 

Host. If the body is healthy, sores? 

Guest. These at least are gone, your city 
once more crowded. 

Host. The disease is in the blood to break 
out again. 

Guest. We shall live through it as before. 

Host. A tree has new leaves many times, 
but in the end the tree dies. 

Guest. Are not other trees left? 

Host. In the end the land sinks under the 
sea. 

Guest. Are not other lands raised? 

Host. The earth itself will crumble out of 
the sky. 

Guest. Will there not be other stars? 

Host. Far away. 

Guest. This plague and massacre, these at 
least are gone. 

Host. The dream is gone, not what caused 
the dream. 

37 



MERIWETHER LEWIS. 



MERIWETHER LEWIS 

Scene One 

(Sioux zvarriors with scalp sticks are dancing 
about fires to the noise of drums. Lewis and 
another, backs to the audience, are watching,') 

Soldier. The Mandans warned us, Captain 
Lewis, how treacherous these Sioux are ; 
In the frenzy of this dance, is there nothing to 
fear? 

Lewis. Show no fear and there is nothing 
to fear. 

Soldier. Their dancing files are about our 
scattered men. 
Would it not have been better to have kept 
together? 

Lewis. That would have shown us afraid. 

They do not know our strength, seeing us 
calm ; 

Keep calm, and they will not know our weak- 
ness. 

Soldier. I wish that I were out of this. 

Lewis. The way through 

is the way out. 

Any other way is harder. Do and do, 
Like the witches in Macbeth; but do not stop 
To value what you do. It is pastime. . . . 
Ferocity is painted on their faces ; 
But if they should turn upon us, 
Men are not Promethean to live forever, tor- 
tured. 

Scene Two 

(An expanse of snow in the mountains. Lewis 
and another are hardly able to walk.) 

Lewis. Here they went. See, here ! 

39 



Soldier. What's this? 

Lewis. Horse guts. They have killed . a 
horse for food. 

Soldier. Here is the head. The lips have 
flesh. 

Lewis. Can you cut them off? My hands 
are stiff. 

Soldier. The head is frozen hard. They 
must have gone by yesterday. 

Lewis. Let's carry the head to that cleft 

and build a fire. 
Whose horse was it? This is Clark's, I think. 

See the white forehead. 
When we cut off your lips, horse, you will 

begin to grin. 

Soldier. I can't walk now. Let's rest a 

moment. 
Is it beginning to snow? It that snow or 

stars? 
Do you feel snow falling? 

Lewis. Nothing is falling. All is frozen 
fast, 

The stars are frozen to the sky and these 
snow-covered mountains, 

Rising behind each other, are frozen to their 
base. 

Men live and work and what they ?re, 

Snowed under with their earth at last. 

But what we are 

Is born on other stars, in turn to die there; 

And what men in their orbits signify, the 
stars signify and that is — 

We, whose lives are in years, bother about 

Timeless matters; and daily see 

The bright roof, our sky, dissolving into dark- 
ness. 

Come on now, and we two Salomes help each 

40 



other with this head. 

{They do so.) 

What follows a straight line may end some- 
where, 

But stars go in circles. I throw up my head 
spinning to the stars. 

I kill time until time kills me. 

One shot from this pistol, or five seconds 
falling into that abyss — 

The earth is still. 

Scene Three 

(Night. The Pacific surf is heard. Leivis' 
and Clark's soldiers break up camp.) 

A Soltiier. (waiting for the start, to 
another.) I am so sleepy. . . I wish 
that I could sleep, crawl into my own bed 
between the cool sheets, in my own room 
in my own house. . . . 

The last time I was on furlough, a farmer 
gave me a lift. I fell asleep and when 
I woke — ■ 

Beside the wide blue Hudson, twinkling with 
sunshine, and the cart taking me home. 

To be coming up that road now, even if the 
sky were grey and the coldest wind blow- 
ing, chunks of ice hiding the water. 

If I could only get a little sleep. While we 
wait, I'll just close my eyes, just close my 
eyes a little. . . . 

Second Soldier. There's something in the 
bush, listen !. . . . 

First Soldier. Nothing. 

A ship waiting at the river's mouth, traders' 

ships along the coast and after all, no ship. 

All over again, Indians, rowing, portage, 

mountains, portage, rowing and Indians. 

Second Soldier. Listen, something in the 
bush. . . . listen. . . . 

41 



Scene Four 

(A village on the Mississippi. A cannon is 
heard. Cheers. Afterwards, Lewis, Clark, 
and citizens enter. Lewis is playing with his 
pistol.) 

Citizen. Well, Captain Lewis, the country 
had given up hope of your returning. 

Second Citizen. Gone three years. 

First Citizen. You're the next President, 
if you choose to be. They were talking 
of Congress voting land, if you'd get back. 
(He turns to Clark.) They ought to make 
it ten thousand acres apiece. Jefferson 
will make you governor of Missouri, Capt. 
Lewis. 
And we need a good man what with all that's 
going on. The trouble is frontiers get the 
riff-raff. The steady decent people stay 
back home ; those with a screw loose, loaf- 
ers, goal-birds, and bankkrupts in the 
States float here. 

Third Citizen. The whole country is going 
to hell. A man from New York was here 
and he tells me the papist Irish are land- 
ing there in droves. You can see them 
any day, coming from the Battery, in rags, 
not a penny to their name, drunk the lot 
of them; men, women and brats boozing 
from the same bottle. This will be a fine 
country in nineteen hundred and six with 
those breeding in it. We've kicked 
out George the Third to have the Pope 
instead. 

Second Citizen. A minister had an article 
about it in the ladies' journal my wife gets. 

Third Citizen. There's not much use 
bothering about this part of the country. 

42 



Down the river they had an earthquake 
a while back. That's the kind of a coun- 
try it is. And there ain't a river like the 
Mississippi in all the land. It'll change 
its course overnight and wipe out a town- 
ship. A man that'll farm beside that river 
is a fool ; and a town that's built beside 
that river is a town of fools. 

First Citizen. Some folks around here, 
Captain Lewis, make more trouble than 
any river. Let me tell you — well, after 
dinner; come on, gentlemen. (The citi- 
zens walk on). 

Clark, (to Lezvis). Why do you act 
towards them with such respect? 

Lewis. I too thought respect ought to be 

deserved ; 
Now I simulate respect out of pity. 

Clark. You should attack ; you mislead 
them into thinking their littleness affirmed. 

Lewis. I am not interested in attacking 
littleness. 

Clark. Everything on earth is little, if it 
comes to that. 

Lewis. It has come to that. (They follow 
the others.) 

Scene Five 

Lewis. I am Meriwether Lewis ; 
Blood not the least in Virginia, ancestors 
Back me up ; 

Am trained to read and untwist 
Meanings to the first strands ; 
To outride and outshoot many; 
Have money enough, am not like most 
Indentured to a room, nor fenced 

43 



Within a county; 

But within the scoop of sugar 

The grocer used in filling up this paper bag, 

So plump and neatly tied, 

Were ants. 

Perhaps, the leasehold in our bodies 

Is held in trust. 

So many strings, 

That if we fall, what else 

Falls also, or what bells are jangled — 

I asked for work so huge, laborious, needing 

so much time, 
That taking it away in shovelsful, 
I might forget myself. 
Mr. Jefferson commissioned me 
To go through the unknown lands 
Westward. The world has still too many 

tyrannies 
For our republic to be content 
With narrow limits. Like a man against a 

cliff, 
I kept my mind upon the work in hand, 
And dared not look away from the next grasp 

and foothold. 
The work is ended. 
What is worth doing? Administer 
The petty laws? 



44 



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